That Other Cross
by mercurybard
Summary: OCPOV. A kid volunteers to accompany his Sunday School teacher to help the chaplain at Fox River and finds himself being stared at by a murderer on Death Row. What's so special about this guy anyway?


Author's Note: Luke 23:39-43 is quoted below. It's the story about the two bandits who were crucified beside Jesus. One taunted him; the other shushed the first and asked for Jesus' forgiveness, which was granted.

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They passed around a sheet at Sunday School about a month ago. A chance to do an afternoon's work at the prison, Fox River. Our Sunday School teacher's real big on trying to get through to the guys in prison. Mr. Bellows spends a couple afternoons there every week helping the chaplain. He says he wants to have a few of us get the chance to see real missionary work that doesn't involve going to Africa or Mexico. A chance to see God versus the powers of human darkness. Makes less sense when I try to explain it--like a comic book or something. Pow! Shazam! Satan retreats from the approach of the God and his mighty prison missionaries, leaving all the poor little prisoners to bask in His glory.

I'm still not sure why I signed the sheet. Call it a spur-of-the-moment thing. Nobody was looking. Nobody else had signed the sheet, and I doubted anyone else would before the bell rang to send us down to service. Maybe I felt sorry for Mr. Bellows. I'll probably never know. But that's how I ended up spending my Saturday in prison.

It was a gray day anyway; the clouds hung low over the castle-like fortress when we arrived. Mr. Bellows walked me through security like a pro, joking with some of the guards even. They patted me down and took away the pocket knife I'd forgotten to take out of the back pocket of my jeans. They promised I'd get it back when I left, but I could still feel my ears burning. I should have known to leave it in the car. I'd just forgotten I was carrying it, was all.

We'd gotten there just in time for chapel, which was good since the chaplain wanted Mr. Bellows to give the sermon today. I got to sit on a little bench off to the side of the chapel altar, beside the chaplain. There's not much for me to do except sit there and help with the Eucharist when we get to that part. And that's easy--you just hold the cup or the bread and mumble this one line over and over again as each person comes up one at a time to dunk their bit of bread.

So I people-watch. Not many guys in here, and those that are mostly have their heads bowed. Either praying or studying their shoes, I can't tell. One guy, though, is staring straight ahead. Chance would have it that I'm sitting right in front of him, so technically, he's looking at me, but he's got such a dead expression on his face that I'm not sure he's actually seeing me. Not really. Makes my skin crawl.

I try not to squirm. Sixteen years of church and I'm a master at that. That guy's different from the rest of the prisoners--not just in the way he's looking but everything else about him too. He's got a different color jumpsuit and he's shackled, hand and foot. So, I lean over while Mr. Bellows is preaching and ask the chaplain who he is.

"Lincoln Burrows," the old man whispers back. "He's on death row for killing the vice president's brother."

What's a death row murderer doing in chapel? Maybe he comes just to get out of his cell. Though the lighting here makes this little concrete chapel look as gloomy as I figure a cell would be. The guy, Burrows, is still doing that staring-but-not-staring thing. He looks like a pretty tough guy. He could beat me into the ground, no problem, sure, but then again I'm a shrimp. I'll admit it. I hope I never end up in prison, because every single one of these guys in the chapel--even the old ones--could kick the crap out of me without even trying.

The guards at the door step aside to let another prisoner in, even though Mr. Bellows is almost finished with his sermon. "'Aren't you the Messiah? Save yourself and us!'" The teacher's using his 'Bad Guy' voice as the other kinds in my class have dubbed it. It's higher-pitched--squeakier--than his normal one. I bite the side of my tongue to keep from laughing. None of the prisoners are laughing. Either they're listening, giving the old man their full attention, or their attention is elsewhere, like Burrows'. The new guy, the one who came in late, is slowly making his way down the aisle, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his blue pants. He's half-listening to Mr. Bellows as his eyes flick from one thing to another, landing on me for a moment before moving on.

He's moving, so that automatically makes him the center of my attention. He's younger than most of the guys in the room, and even though he's acting completely cool, I can tell he's two seconds from jumping out of his skin. Trust me, I know these things. I've been picked on since I was in kindergarten and probably before then (I just don't remember), and I'm slowly starting to learn that you can't be jumpy all the time. It makes the bullies just more attracted to you. I swear, they can smell fear. Looking at this guy, I think he knows that, and I wonder what could make him so afraid. Sure, he's in prison, but prison can't be as bad as they say...can it?

He steps into the pew behind Lincoln Burrows, giving the murderer's shoulder a squeeze before sitting down.

"'Jesus said to him, 'I promise you that today you will be in Paradise with me'.'" Mr. Bellows was saying.

I turned to the chaplain in confusion. He takes one look at me and knows my question. I guess I need to work on not being so obvious. "He's Burrows' brother." The old reverend looks back at the two. Burrows is still staring straight ahead, but his brother is watching my teacher with interest...actually listening. "They say he's in here for robbing a bank, but..." the chaplain trailed off.

I looked over at him expectantly.

"But, I think he's here to be with his brother, in the very end."


End file.
